


The State Dinner

by deadlybride



Series: The Ackles Presidential Library [2]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Politics, M/M, Rimming, Romantic Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2020-03-01 09:51:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18797953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride
Summary: The White House hosts a state dinner for the President of Uruguay; after the evening's entertainment, there are a few hours that don't belong to anyone else.





	The State Dinner

**Author's Note:**

> written for the SMPC on Livejournal.

"Okay, you seriously have to go," Daniela says, somewhere.

Jared doesn't look up from his briefing memo. "Go where," he says, absently. Those figures on incarcerations can't be right, surely. Where's his memo from HomeSec, he had it ten minutes ago—

A blue folder appears in front of his face, and he grabs at it but it's jerked away just as fast. He resurfaces and Daniela's face is all thunder. "Jared. You have to _go_ ," she says.

Jared blinks. "What time is it? It's cocktails now, right, the First Lady—"

"You already missed the first course," Daniela says, and oh—oops, shit. Jared leaps to his feet and she rolls her eyes. "See, there he is."

It has been quiet, which just made it easier for Jared to get caught up in learning everything he could about legalization versus decriminalization. He thought he had more time. The President and First Lady were hosting cocktails in the Yellow Room for President Mujica and his wife, and then it would be the descent down to the pavilion, with the fanfare and the band playing everything, and then wine, and then—yes, the first course, when he was meant to be speaking with the Uruguayan ambassador about their success in the drug war, and—

"Shit," he says, again.

Daniela shakes her head, comes over and fixes his bow tie. "Danny's there, she got all the same briefings as you," she says, frowning at the knot. "Okay: you're fixed, go, go—" and Jared walks as quickly as is seemly for the Chief of Staff: out of the office, through the communications bullpen where JD's still locked in at his desk finalizing the remarks for tonight with that officious little twerp from State, out of the South Portico, out onto the lawn, and the pavilion's a glowing beacon of light, gorgeous and impressive and, okay, not where he wants to be, but duty calls.

The agent at the receiving line nods at him and he's inside, and it really is gorgeous: strings of fairy lights draped over the ceiling of the great tent, huge vases planted with that Uruguayan flowering tree, wrapped in with glowing amber seed-lights and pink ribbon to match the flowers that the social secretary had nearly had an aneurysm over. Gen explained at length about the color scheme of the hanging silks, the table linens, soft blues and cream and gold, but Jared's not focused on that.

At the head table, the President and the First Lady sit flanked by Mujica and his wife, with the Secretaries of State and the Interior, and guests. Jared pauses, watching from just inside the tent, but the President's smiling and there doesn't seem to be any brittleness to it; he's at his charming best, the First Lady matching him without a single shadow, and that means it's going well so far. It should be a good night.

He finds his seat and there's a chorus of "Jared!" as he arrives—he smiles, demurs. "Sorry, got caught up," he says, and the ambassador claps his shoulder, introduces him to the few at the table he doesn't know. CEO, Nobel winner, CEO's wife, philanthropist, philanthropist. He smiles, switches on what he always thinks of as donor-mode, and he arrived just in time for the second course: Uruguayan ropa vieja, served with a pinot gris from California, and he rifles through his internal rolodex of the information he crams in by the ton every day and turns and smiles at the Nobel winner: Economics, from Canada, professor at Georgetown, and Jared says, "Professor Tremblay, I hope your evening has gone well so far," and then they're off to the races. Diplomacy via wining and dining, it could be worse.

Third course is an elegant tiny thing inspired by Texas brisket with chimichurri and an accompaniment of roasted summer vegetables. Delicious, though Jared pines for a hamburger. An aide comes and bends a whisper to Jared's ear, which that means he's free to escape the table for a moment. He walks around the long way, saying hellos and paying compliments to gowns as he needs to, and approaches the head table from the side. It's a blocky U-shape, the heads of state in the center, and the President is deep in conversation but turns his head as Jared approaches. He smiles, the lines beside his eyes crinkling. "Jared! I thought you weren't going to make it."

"Good evening, Mr. President, Mrs. Ackles," Jared says, smiling back. He's wearing that new tuxedo from Yohji Yamamoto and it fits him… perfectly would be an understatement. Jared drags his eyes away, nods politely to Mujica. "Buenas noches, señor Presidente, y señora."

Mujica reaches out to shake his hand, and speaks in Spanish: "Your accent is better than his." He's a friendly man, deep intelligence behind his eyes, and Jared grins. "I hope our governments can work together."

"Yes, sir," Jared says, and turns back to his own president. "Sir, may I speak to you for a moment?"

A quick nod, and leaned-in apology to the First Lady, who only pats his knee and then leans in to speak to Mujica's wife. She's fluent in Spanish, better than Jared's and certainly better than the President's—she has the entertainment well in hand.

The President follows Jared over to the side of the pavilion, near another huge vase glowing gold through the leaves and flowers. "It's nice to get to do one of these that doesn't feel like weird brinksmanship," he says, relaxed. "I think José actually likes me."

"Everyone likes you, sir," Jared says, and gets an eyeroll for his trouble. True, though. More or less. "Just wanted to let you know, the national security advisor's office says that things are all quiet, so we shouldn't need to brief until the morning."

The President nods, looking out over the pavilion. Some eyes are on them, of course, but not nearly all. "Barring any major disasters, I guess." He slips a hand into his pocket, eyes darting from guest to guest. "Look, Tripplehorn and Kandinsky are talking. Never let it be said that brisket can't cause miracles." Jared snorts, and gets a quick grin back. "Anything else I need to know about?"

"JD's going to have your remarks finished up in a few minutes." He shrugs. "Other than that, I'm just glad you're having a good time, sir."

"Tell JD if he ever finishes up a speech earlier than ten minutes before I actually have to go on stage, you'll give him a raise," the President says, but he reaches out and squeezes Jared's arm, warm and solid. "I'll see you later, right?"

"Of course, sir," Jared says, and watches him return to the head table, his skin glowing in all this amber-gold light. He looks younger, like this. Like he did when Jared first met him.

Jared returns to his table, and the conversation with the ambassador, and to the next course: a chilled gazpacho, which is immediately interrupted by JD delivering the final version of the President's remarks for Jared to sign off on. Then, the dessert course, paired with port, where Jared nods through a mind-numbingly dull recounting of Senator Trevino's daughter's wedding. Finally, the President stands, and the Marine Band stops playing their easy background music, and the crowd goes hushed.

"Friends," he starts, and tips a movie-star smile at President Mujica. "Nuestros amigos y aliados," he says, in that careful accent he and Jared have practiced, and Jared covers his grin with his hand and listens to the speech: on honoring long friendships, and reaffirming alliances to make the world a more just, more fair, more humane place, for all people in all circumstances. To be better, and nothing is more simple and more complicated than that. When the President lifts his glass Jared stands with the rest of the three hundred guests and joins in the toast: to the lasting partnership of Uruguay and the United States, to a night going smoothly, to his best friend.

After, the crowd explodes, reorganizes. All of the social secretary's careful seating arrangements fall apart. That means Jared's free to slip back to the office, if only briefly: Gen has one last briefing before she calls a full lid and lets the press loose to cluster against the security line on the south lawn; Danny and Alex appear to be engaged in outright warfare with the House whips in the Roosevelt room, but Jared's pretty certain that the decriminalization bill won't even make it out of committee and the debate is just for the love of the game; Daniela's put together a new stack of briefings for him for tomorrow, but insists it can wait. A third of his staff has gone home, but the night's not done.

The night's entertainment has taken the stage when Jared comes back; the Dirty Dozen Brass Band, playing a perfect mix of original work and familiar covers, swinging enough that some people are actually taking advantage of the parquet set up as a dance floor in the center of the pavilion. More than half the guests are still politicking, and Jared accepts a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and glances over the crowd, checking. Yes, there's the HUD Secretary talking to Bob Glassman, just like they planned, which if things work out right could lead to a line of support for the amendments they're planning to submit to the welfare bill. Gen glitters back into the party and immediately Maxwell and Contreras descend on her—that'll be about the upcoming speech to the AFL-CIO, and Gen's got that well in hand.

Jared watches the President and First Lady dance, and then the President offers his hand to the laughing first lady of Uruguay and convinces her to shuffle along with him through a slow bouncy number. She barely comes to his shoulder and her English is barely better than the President's terrible Spanish, but they seem to be having a good time. There's the professionally flirty smile, tipped down to the little elderly lady's ear, his good-natured kindness. He likes the first couple of Uruguay genuinely—President Mujica has done some work with the UN and human rights that has inspired some of their own attempts at legislation—and the President was right, it's a good night.

"Enjoying the view?" he hears, dry humor, and turns to find that he's been snuck up on.

"Mrs. Ackles," he says, straightening up out of his slouch.

She tuts at him. "Come on, Jared, it's a party, say hello," she says, and he leans down and kisses the air over her smooth, perfumed cheek, says, "Hey, Catherine," and when he pulls back she's wearing a smile for him. It looks real, and he thinks it is.

Another waiter passes and he snags a glass of the white wine for her, which she clinks gently against his champagne flute. "Everything going well?" she says.

"So far, so good," he says. A socialite he doesn't recognize drifts by and Catherine squeezes her hand, smiles, sends her on her way. "Reaffirming our friendship with Uruguay, boosting Mujica's standing in South America, tipping a little closer toward decriminalization if we can."

"Do you think there's seriously a single chance that this Congress will agree to move marijuana out of schedule one?" She waves at someone across the room, smiles in that way that makes her eyes look like they're sparkling. Really, she's almost as beautiful as her husband. "Any way at all?"

"No," Jared says, frankly. Catherine takes a sip of wine, looks at him over the top of the glass. "But the more we can move the conversation that direction—"

"Right," she says, rolling her eyes a little, but she's still relaxed, calm. She's always been further left than the administration has been able to go and there were some real arguments during the campaign on the line to walk, how much to compromise. Sometimes Jared wonders how the platform would look if she were able to be in charge of policy. She sips again at her wine, looking over at where the two presidents are chatting with the Secretary of State, and her smile still looks genuine. "Look at Jensen. I haven't seen him having fun in months."

Catherine's a good first lady—she came to Washington when Jared and Jensen did, when Jensen took his seat as the junior senator from Texas, and she slipped easily into the right social circles, carrying the weight of her parents' money and philanthropic credentials paired with a whip-smart mind. This is only their third state dinner in the White House and everything's perfect, from the décor to the centerpieces to the menu to the guest list. Jared doesn't know a thing about women's fashion, but he knows she's beautiful and just a tad daring tonight in gold and pink, a bare shadow of cleavage, her toned slim arms bare to the summer air—Danny and Gen and JD all practically applauded when she walked into the room. Together they make an exquisite couple, in public.

"I saw you speaking to Don Howard from Banner earlier," Jared says, after the pause feels too long. He's used to this relationship now, but he knows he'll never be Catherine's favorite person. How could he be, with what he has, and what she doesn't. He smiles at her, anyway. "Have you conquered the capitalist yet?"

She grins, crooked, and knocks her shoulder against him. "I love capitalists, how dare you," she says. "As long as they give all of their money to the less fortunate."

A gaggle comes up on them, then—the Chief of Staff and the First Lady, both holding drinks, that's a prime opportunity for trying to gain political capital. Jared doesn't blame them, he's been there himself as a young staffer looking for any foothold, but there's just a touch of headache pressing behind his eye. He doesn't have the spine for it, not now. Catherine's more than capable of holding her own, anyway, and these are more votes and dollars she can line up for the cerebral palsy research foundation she's getting Banner to start. Jared murmurs apologies and leaves her to charm them into complacency, and slips away—back to the West Wing, back to his office. Before he goes he gets one last look over the pavilion. Right in the center, there's the President—still smiling, glowing in the golden light. It really does feel like one of those Camelot nights.

*

Jared's still working when Danny stops by his office, later. "Well, Alex didn't actually lunge across the table at the guy, but it was close," she says, perching on the arm of one of his chairs. She's still in her sky-blue gown, resplendent and out of place among all his piles of paper and books and memos. "They're going back to talk to their bosses. They still think the AG isn't doing his job."

"He isn't, technically," Jared says. He rubs his eye. When he was younger and dumber he'd hoped they'd be done with this fight by now. "Okay. You're meeting with Bainbridge tomorrow?"

She nods, but frowns at him too. "You ought to hang it up for the day, boss. Daniela even went home."

"What, seriously?" he says, and checks his clock. Oh, midnight. "Yeah, we can probably call that a full day. I'll be in early tomorrow, let me know how that meeting goes. If it goes anywhere."

"If," she says. She rolls her shoulders forward, stretching. "The party's still going. Me and Gen are going to head over and see if we can scavenge any dessert. Want to come?"

"No way, they're probably about out and I wouldn't get between you two and chocolate for danger pay." He undoes his bow tie, lets it dangle. "Mujica and his wife—?"

"He's like a million years old, they went to bed an hour ago." She ignores Jared's weak _hey_ —they really are old, it's true—and stands up, her skirt swirling. "The First Lady's in the Blue Room with a bottle of bourbon and a few donors that she might be threatening, I don't know, and the President's in the residence, and the work day ended when the clock struck midnight. I'm getting some damn cake."

He says good night, laughs a little as she stalks out. Long day. He pops an aspirin, swallows it dry, and considers. Catherine's at home, entertaining, and if Jared were a better man, he'd go back to his apartment. He should. Tomorrow will come soon enough—it's already here—and it'll be back to work, and he can be content with that.

He exits through the Oval, and walks down the colonnade to the mansion. The marines don't change expression as he walks by. The night's much cooler now, the humidity dying down, and he breathes in the roses, the soft air. Distant music, from the pavilion, but he's heading to something better.

The agents on the door just nod at him, and he doesn't knock before he enters the bedroom. Lights are on, and the television—and there's Jensen, feet up, glass of whiskey in hand, watching the west coast feed of the Angels-Astros game. "Astros better be losing," Jared says, and Jensen sits up, blinks at him. "Also, why isn't their mascot the dog from the Jetsons? Can't you make that an executive order or something?"

"I thought you weren't going to come," Jensen says, and he really sounds surprised. Jared crosses the room, touches his jaw. Prickle of stubble, warm skin. Jensen curls his hand around Jared's, looking up at him, and the look in his eyes is too much, too much. Jared pulls on his hand and Jensen stands, right up against where Jared's waiting, and he dips and takes the kiss he's been craving for six hours, when Jensen first walked into the oval in his tuxedo, looking like everything Jared ever wanted.

Jensen makes a soft sound into his mouth, as soft as his lips, as his hand on Jared's. "I wasn't sure," Jared says, pulling back enough that he can look down into Jensen's eyes again. He's still in his tux but his shoes are off, and that makes it a ridiculous dip down to kiss him, but it's not like Jared minds. This is more reserved than Jensen usually is when they're alone, though, and Jared rubs his thumb over Jensen's cheek, rides the line of his cheekbone to his temple. "What's up?"

Jensen squeezes his hand, and leans in against Jared's chest. "Nothing," he says, and Jared responds to that with the silence it deserves. He gets a sigh, warm through his shirt. "Too wired to sleep. Thinking about the midterms. Hoping José can help us with Venezuela. My feet hurt. That enough?"

"Plus, the Astros are playing," Jared says, pressing a brief kiss against the top of his head. Still a little stiff with product, but that'll change. "That's enough to depress anyone."

A snort and Jensen pushes against his chest, but it's only enough to make Jared sway back, and he gathers Jensen up and tips up his face and kisses him again, slow, licking in. He tastes like whiskey, and he hums against Jared's mouth, and sighs into him, and then clutches his jacket, gives over to it.

"I wanted to do that all night," Jensen says, mumbled against Jared's mouth, and Jared blinks at him. "Don't tell anyone I said this, but you make a tux look good."

Jared's surprised into a laugh, and Jensen kisses his jaw, his throat. "Secret's safe with me," he says, and gets a so-soft scrape of teeth against the skin above his collar in response. God—Jensen's hands are firmer, his lips so soft-plush-hot, and Jared pushes his jacket off over his shoulders, pulls his tie loose. A hiss and Jensen sways back, looks up at him with his cheeks already stained pink, his mouth dark to match. Jared touches his thumb there, at the corner. "Look at you."

"No," Jensen says, tiny dimples peeking up. He steps back, though, leaves Jared there just—wanting him, and then watching, confused, while he picks up the remote. Flip through the channels until he finds—oh, a blues music station, one of those satellite feeds. Easy thumping rhythm, a scratchy voice, and Jared tips his head in question. Jensen braces on the back of the armchair, bites his bottom lip. "All's quiet on the western front," Jensen says, looking right at him. "There's nothing you're supposed to be doing, or me. Catherine already told me she'd be in one of the guest rooms tonight." Jared takes a deep breath. "I want—stay. For a few hours. Stay here."

Jared runs his hand through his hair, trying to think beyond the hot blaze that just set in his stomach. "I—the agents, on the door."

"You've stayed late for strategy sessions before," Jensen says. "Not to mention they're superhumanly discreet. In addition to all the other superhuman things about them."

Both true, though Jared still hesitates. There's so much to lose, which Jensen knows full well—almost his entire adult life has been shaped around it. This secret that's still so big, too big. He almost never asks, and on this one thing Jared's maybe even more cautious than Jensen.

Still. Jensen's eyes have cut away, while he fiddles with his cufflinks, and Jared—it's been a long, long day. He doesn't often get the opportunity for a nightcap this sweet.

"So I look good in the tux, huh," he says, and Jensen smiles, still looking down at the carpet. "Come on, I want details."

"That's it," Jensen says, "I take it back forever, you look like a potato wearing a bow tie," and Jared takes the step and kisses him again to shut him up, and Jensen doesn't seem like he minds, much, after all.

It's not a crazy crash of passion, not like it was in older days. When Jared got hired onto the senate campaign he thought he'd won the lottery. Here at last, an intelligent, thoughtful, caring politician, who matched all that with charisma and looks that could blow the doors off buildings. Someone worth believing in. Someone who'd win. It was months before he realized the looks he kept sneaking the candidate's way were being returned, even more subtly, and once they were on the same page—rushed handjobs in hotel rooms before dawn, and fake meetings at the house when Catherine was out (giving them privacy, Jared later learned), all too-hard hands and careful blunted teeth. The frank surprise in Jensen's eyes, wide and staring up at Jared, like it was something totally new, like he was learning something he'd had no idea he didn't know.

They don't have any more time, now; even less privacy. Even so, this handful of hours that Jensen has worked to carve out, in their days so impossibly busy that it feels like breathing's a luxury—Jared's not going to waste it. He kisses Jensen there against the armchair for a while, feels his mouth and the prickle of stubble growing back in after the long day, and Jensen curls his hands in Jared's hair, matches his pace. He bites Jared's lip, sharp, and Jared curls an arm around his lower back, tugs him close, and gets a huffed little laugh for his trouble. Jensen's warm against him, easy, and Jared's suddenly not tired at all.

When they finally pull apart Jensen noses against the underside of his jaw, tips his forehead down against Jared's shoulder. The song changes, some new bluesy thing, low and scratchy and with a thick, solid rhythm. Jared scratches the back of Jensen's head, where the short hair fades perfectly down to his neck, and Jensen groans, sighs. "Mm," Jared hears, pressed muffled against his jacket, and then Jensen tips his head back so that Jared catches the weight of it. He gets a small smile. "C'mon."

He's led into the bathroom. Together they strip off, Jared carefully keeping his tux folded and neat on the chair to be put back on later, while Jensen's careless. The shower's big, two showerheads and massage settings, and the water pressure—oh, yeah. Jensen said when they first got the White House that this was about the only benefit to being the leader of the free world. Jared stands there with his eyes closed, lets the blast pummel his shoulders and considers not moving for an hour, and Jensen laughs at him but kisses him again, wet, his shoulders gleaming. Freckles still there, somehow, for Jared to dip his head and kiss, and as he does it he reaches down between them and feels where Jensen's getting hard, the weight filling up Jared's palm. "What do you want?" Jared says, quiet against the side of Jensen's neck.

When he lifts up Jensen puts a hand to the side of his face, pushes his wet hair back. His pupils are spread out, his eyes dark. "No rush," he says, but he takes Jared's other hand and brings it to his hip, sliding on the slick warm skin, and Jared blinks at him. White teeth snag the corner of his mouth and he looks for just the barest moment unsure. Like Jared would say no. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Jared says, almost voiceless, and Jensen smiles, leans in. Jared kisses him, as he's clearly expected to, and then Jensen nudges at his cheek, says, "Give me a minute," and Jared squeezes his dick one more time and gets a wet flutter of lashes before he steps out of the shower, slides the frosted glass back closed, and buries his head in a towel, breathing deep. His imagination's running ahead without him.

He dries off, mostly, scrapes his hair back from his face. In the bedroom, the music's still playing, and he turns it down a notch. He wants to hear the sounds Jensen'll make. Whiskey's sitting out in its decanter, Jensen's glass still waiting with half an inch undrunk; he refills it, and gets his own glass, and goes to wait on the bed, sipping slowly. His shoulders don't feel tight, anymore, and his headache's gone, and he lets his eyes drift closed, listening to the Muddy Waters number, whiskey warm in his belly. He fists his dick, slow and firm, feeling the night curl up tight and hot in his gut.

"Leave some for me," he hears. He smiles, and turns his head, and opens his eyes last to find Jensen leaning his hip against the bed, looking down at him. Still naked, shoulders and chest shining-damp, smooth and barely pinked from the water. His dick stands out a little from his body, heavy with blood, dark, and Jared licks the corner of his mouth, wanting. Jensen holds out his hand and Jared takes it, and Jensen crawls up onto the mattress, props himself up over Jared and leans in and lets his dick drag over Jared's thigh while they kiss. Jared holds his shoulder, takes the soft sound pressed into his mouth. When Jensen pulls back he slides his hand down and steals the glass out of Jared's hand, and takes a sip with his eyes steady on Jared's, and Jared waits for him to swallow and then sits up and takes the glass out of his hand and puts it on the table and then pushes his shoulder, knocking him over to lay back on the mattress, and Jensen laughs soft and quiet, and he's—oh, beautiful. It catches Jared by surprise, somehow. This many years and he can still hardly believe it. Just looking at him, some days. That could be enough.

Warm fingers brush Jared's hip, his stomach. "I love you," Jensen says, a smile still lingering in the corner of his mouth, in the warm tip of his eye. Jared touches the curve of his bottom lip, his chest overfull, and Jensen's hand comes up and presses against his sternum. Some days.

When he can finally bear to drag away from Jensen's mouth he tugs at his hip, turns him over, and Jensen wraps his arms around one of the dozen pillows and sighs, spreading his legs. His back, his ass. His thighs, and Jared knows he doesn't get to the gym as much as he'd like but they're still strong, flexing as Jared drags his hands along the barely-there hair, the curve where his ass swells up, and there he squeezes, pulling, and Jensen makes a soft sound. They don't do this often, don't usually get the time, but Jared—he ducks down, kisses the highest swell of muscle, drags his thumb down the superheated skin in the cleft and, ah, there. Tight, but not as tight as it could be, softened a little from the shower, from Jensen cleaning himself up. Jared leans his weight onto one elbow, pops his thumb in his mouth to wet it and then presses there, pulsing easy pressure with his eyes on the side of Jensen's face, and he watches those lips part, a sigh leaving them. God. He ducks down, pressing his ass open with both hands and licking, a broad flat stroke, and that gets a real sound, a little _ah_. Jensen's balls sit fat and heavy, easy to dip and lick against, too, and that gets a shudder, and then Jensen's hand creeps down and helps to hold his ass open and he says, "Jared," rough-edged and breathy, and Jared settles in, licks in deep and wets the hair flat with his tongue and makes Jensen squirm down into the bed, and oh, yes, that's exactly it.

He works at Jensen, his hips flexing, and his own balls ache and his dick fills but it's worth the wait, worth it, for this. With the wet and the pressure Jensen's body relaxes, enough that Jared slips a finger in, and then two, snugged deep and caught tight in the hot clasp of muscle, Jensen shivering when Jared licks against where he's stretched open, his back arching into it. "Oh," Jensen says, a little moan, and Jared picks his head up, jaw aching, presses his fingers down. "That good?" he says, and Jensen's eyes slit open enough that he can glare over his shoulder, which is answer enough. Jared grins at him, lifts up, holds his balls in a warm grip and fucks his fingers in and out, and Jensen crushes his hips into the bed, grinding down. "Impatient," Jared says, teasing like his own dick isn't standing straight out from his body, greedily straining.

Jensen drags his arms underneath him, lifts up. He doesn't say anything, and he doesn't have to; his asshole flexes around Jared's fingers, wet, and abruptly Jared can't wait another minute. The lube's there, on the bed, and he tugs out his fingers and slicks himself up, and crawls up over Jensen, propped on one hand, his knees keeping Jensen's thighs wide. He kisses the arched muscle in the shoulder in front of him, kisses the line of cheekbone, tips his forehead against Jensen's temple. Breathes with him, and with his free hand grips his aching dick and noses in, slips slick against all the wet he left behind and finds the soft giving entrance and—pushes, feeding in, and slips his hand around to feel Jensen's belly contract, pressing him back while he's swallowed up in—oh, heat, perfect heat that's nearly too tight. Memory blotting out, everything disappearing for a second into the fact of their two bodies, the place where separate isn't separate anymore. Every time, like the first.

Until reality comes back, and he realizes Jensen's hand is locked tight around his wrist where he's holding himself barely up. Jensen's breathing is coming fast, his eyes scrunched shut. Jared grinds in closer, so close his pubes crush in against the slick wet of Jensen's ass, and Jensen's teeth sink into his lip, his hand sliding up Jared's forearm. It hurts a little, it must, but that's not why. A beat, and Jared leans down over the bunched muscle of Jensen's shoulder, finds his mouth. Kisses against the tension there, coaxing, until his lips are soft and plush-swelled and hot and open, sweet, and then Jared slides his hand down and finds Jensen's dick where it's thick and damp at the tip and holds it tight, presses it firmly into Jensen's own soft belly, and keeps his grip right there when he drags his hips back and then fucks right back in, jolting a moan out that Jensen isn't ready to hide. He does it again, and Jensen looks at him finally, eyes nearly black, and then he tips his hips back and nods, and doesn't have to say anything. They've always had an instinct for each other. Jared smiles at him, kisses his shoulder, and then he's free to fuck, pulling back in long even strokes, watching Jensen's face, keeping close enough to feel the sweat that breaks out all over his back.

Tight, but Jensen opens up for him, stretching soft. Pummeled, with Jared not holding back, because Jensen has never, ever wanted him to. He drops down to his elbow, laying nearly flat on Jensen now, and the angle's different, sharper, and when Jensen shudders he feels it all the way through both their bodies. Jensen's hand flails down, grabs Jared's hip, drags him in tighter, and his dick's leaking over Jared's hand, slippery against his belly. His nails dig in and Jared ducks his head down, works his hips hard, crushing in where he knows Jensen's swollen and sensitive. Oh—it's good, it's so good, and he knows it's working when Jensen gasps and then grabs Jared's hand, drags it up to cover Jensen's own mouth. He gulps air and clamps his hand tight over Jensen's lips, the shape of his bones clear through the soft skin and quick hot breath coming from his nose, and Jensen moans, then, deep and caught tight behind their double-grip, squirming his ass back into Jared's hips so their skin claps together, loud and nasty-obvious even under the steady throb of the blues pouring over them, but still just theirs, just for them, a rebounding between them that they understand together, building, crashing.

Afterward, Jared pants like he's just run ten miles and beat his own record. Jensen's back heaves under his chest, and he has to take a few seconds before he remembers that he's crushing the commander in chief—and still holding his mouth closed, oh, and his fingers ache when he lets go. He shifts, his thigh threatening a cramp, but Jensen holds him in place, another moment—until he's softened up enough and he slips out, wet following him, heat not to be believed. Jensen frowns, sighs. Jared slips his sticky hand up over his hip, squeezes comfortingly. What a mess. Another sigh, longer this time, and Jensen drags one elbow up underneath himself, lifts up and twists and finds his mouth, kisses him soft, edged with sleep, and while they're kissing he slowly turns all the way over, their legs tangling and come smearing between them, getting everywhere. Jared can't bring himself to care.

He dozes, with the righteous sleepiness of feeling like a job's been well done. In the golden-dim on the other side of his eyes Jensen lies with him, warm and sticky, fingers playing gently with the hair on his chest. At some point all that warmth leaves the bed, and the radio finally turns off, and there's the sound of a sink running. Jared should get up, too, should piss and clean up. Do all those adult things one's supposed to do.

He lays there, dozy. Eventually, there's another soft touch to his chest, to his belly. A kiss, just above his navel, and he smiles. "Proud of yourself, there?" he hears, dry, and he nods, and gets a little huff. Another kiss, lower, and then another, wet, at the base of his dick, and then it's pushed out of the way so a kiss can be given to his sack, and then to each ball in turn, warm and soft. "Good job, team," Jensen whispers, and Jared laughs, opens his eyes finally.

Jensen's curled on his side, his hair fucked up and damp, his lips dark from being bitten so long. He lays his head down on Jared's thigh, thumb drawing circles over his hipbone, and Jared strokes his cheek, his other arm tucked behind his head.

"You're staying," Jensen says.

A command, if it weren't for the little tendril of hope in it. "For a few hours," Jared says, and Jensen's mouth quirks. Jared rubs his thumb over it, gets another tiny kiss. He drags his thumb down to Jensen's chin. They watch each other, and he sees the same tired comfort in the lines of Jensen's body that he's feeling all throughout his own. Replete.

Jensen's hand comes up to cover Jared's, and their fingers tangle together. Jared says, "You know I love you, too."

He thinks it, all the time. Sometimes he thinks it must be so obvious that the only reason the press hasn't written about fifty exposés is that they're just feeling nice.

Jensen's thumb drags over the back of his hand. "Works out good for me, doesn't it," he says.

"Works out well," Jared corrects.

He gets an eyeroll, and then Jensen's sitting up, arching his back, wincing. "I'm going to create a new cabinet position," he says. "Annoying-ass Secretary of Grammar."

"Senate-confirmable, I'll be a shoo-in," Jared says, and Jensen shifts around to lay on the pillows and kisses his mouth, soft and warm. "Seriously," Jared says, against his mouth, "I'll really do a lot for the cabinet's reputation."

"Shut up forever," Jensen advises, and ignores Jared's smile to squirm down into the pillows. "And go clean yourself up, Mr. Secretary. I get to sleep with you for a few hours, I don't want us to get permanently stuck together."

The tone's irritated, but the eyes are soft. Jared doesn't know what time it is, and doesn't care—worth another day on three hours of sleep, if he gets this for a little while. He squeezes Jensen's hand, uncomplicatedly and simply happy. "Okay," he says, and rolls off the bed and goes, so he can come back.

**Author's Note:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](https://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/184819053894/the-state-dinner)


End file.
